Release Me (Oh, How the Light Reminds Me)
by JennMaryn
Summary: Emma's losing her fight with the Darkness, and fast. Regina hopes she can help. 1/1, spinoff of 5x04.


I was inspired by anothershadeofgreen's meta on tumblr about Regina being the Light, and Emma being the Savior of the Light, so I wrote this. There is a bit of a multiple personality theme going on as a result - be forewarned if you are triggered by that kind of thing. Also, some light Captain Swan, but this is, most definitely, a Swan Queen story.

Enjoy.

* * *

The Darkness has won.

It's taken her, it's dragged her by the cuff, gripped the scruff of her bleeding skin by its claws and brought her up, up, up … into nothingness; into an abyss she cannot fathom will end. _Where is it?_

 _Who is it?_

 _What does the Darkness want? Is she even her?_

 _Is she even real?_

"You'll have to do it, eventually," the lizard man's taunting figure presses, calmly and ever-so-certainly from across the strange place. "It's just a matter of time, dearie!"

"Shut up," Emma whispers in retort, weakly, but she is laying down, she senses; her limbs won't move — her retort is defeat. "I can't."

The high-pitched laughter; the familiar quirk of a being that had stood before her many times before as the Dark One. Rumpelstiltskin. A being that wasn't even really there, but had been — a being that is her, and her familiar — but really _not_ her at all. Perhaps a part of her? But no, Emma chokes on the stinging blood in her throat —she refuses to believe that — the Darkness is not a part of her. It will never reach her burning heart. _Never_.

She is the Savior. Or she _was_ the Savior… always going to protect the light…

Emma is tired of fighting. She has done so for all of her life, and what a life it has been. It is what she was always going to be doing; fighting, protecting, and, if the powers that be finally tell her her life is to be taken at long last, Emma is not sure she would fight against the release.

Her body is failing her now; her mind is going to cave in… years of taunting and standing strong against its growing whisper has made its mark. She is exhausted - and the Savior must go on - but the Savior has been beaten badly, now; bruised, in pain, and crouched into a corner. And Emma, Emma the person, is tired.

"Kill it. Crush it. Kill it. Crush it," The imp sneers in Rumpelstiltskin's voice, taunting and tormenting, and the Darkness around him swirls in a stormy eclipse… like a shadowy hurricane, threatening to grow, and grow, and swallow her up whole. The Savior cries, clutching her arm, the pain too unbearable as her will wanes; the darkness laps at her feet like cimmerian flames. She yells out, screaming in agony; screaming in a defiance she knows will do nothing to ward off the searing chill.

"No!" The Savior's pretty voice is full of fear now; it shakes with tears — with panicked anger. "I won't!"

"You can't fight it, dearie!" The Darkness is yelling now, over the deafening roar of wind, its voice shrill and familiar but also full of an evil she will never forget. "The Darkness is inside of you now; you won't do well to fight it!" It's gleeful; full of bliss at her painful, inevitable doom. "It's with you always — through thick and thin, nastiness and death. And you WILL become one with it." It smiles, horribly, and its voice becomes softer. "Why not make _friends_ with it?"

Stepping forward, it leans toward her, face-to-face with the broken Savior; it studies her intently. She is clutching her knees, head between them. Its breath is cold — icy on the back of her neck — and the Savior lifts it to meet two piercing, snake-like eyes, wondering why there is breath there at all. She feels as though she has seen the terrifying slits that greet her before, as Emma; but this time, there is more to them… they make her shiver.

"And there's nothing that the Darkness likes more…" its face tilts, and leans closer, almost nose-to-nose with her, "than to make friends with those who see the _light_."

Emma blacks out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

It's not long after Killian has set her upon the bed that Regina, Henry, and the Charmings arrive. He's been sitting beside her, one hand upon her back, rubbing it gently and whispering soothing words to no avail.

Emma stirs, slightly. Killian shifts to look at her expectantly, but she does nothing further.

"What's happened to her?" Regina is the first one to speak, and her voice is full of concern, hands folded nervously in front of her. She lets her eyes study Emma — a vision in white — laying on her side as if lethally injured. Her veins are visible against her forehead; she is pale, weak and defeated. Regina swallows. She has never seen Emma this way, and the part that has always wanted to is long gone.

"I don't know. She won't say a thing," Killian answers, his voice slightly above a whisper, speaking so as to not disturb his Lady. He slides off of the bed and in front of her, leaning down to rest at eye level with the other. "Love," he takes a hand, pressing it to her forehead. "Can you hear me?" Emma opens her eyes, looks at him, and then right through him.

Regina stands by, next to her son. She wonders what she can do to help Emma. And then, she feels the sting of knowing there is not much, if anything at all.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

She can't fight! She can't fight! It's drowning her, it's dragging her in! The Savior claws at the waxy marble beneath her, but it's crumbling too — being sucked into the black vortex. The wind is deafening, and she tries to scream; tries to hold onto the brightness. But her hands are reaching for nothing, and the voice inside of her is too strong.

"You can't fight it, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin repeats, and the Savior seems to realize at last that he's right. "You have nothing to fear . . . if you would only trust yourself."

And then, she's loosening her grip, her limbs collapsing in faltering retaliation. She's given up. The Darkness is in her now. And the Savior, for all she has done, knows she cannot fight herself.

"Please . . . " she whispers, desperately. "Please. Just release me. Just let me go . . ." But the Darkness is no merciful being; it will not give her the relief of death, and she is dragged, instead, further into the storm.

Suddenly, she slows, and looks up. The wind still howls in her ears — rapes her from all sides — but a flash of light appears in the distance, and suddenly, she feels warmer. The Savior opens her eyes, lifts her neck from the ground. A flash of . . . red. It's Regina — Regina is floating through, in front of her. She's speaking, but her voice is far away. Oh, but the sound, it's warmth, it's strength; it's _Light_.

" _She needs rest,"_ she's saying, and her body glides through like a beautiful phantom, her face gentle and severe, all at once. Emma is not sure who she's talking to, but she is beautiful, and she is here. _"Somewhere safe — away from prying eyes."_

Regina.

o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o

Emma's suddenly spoken.

At first, it's a slight mumble. The Charmings had been arguing— something about Lancelot and if he is to be trusted — Regina isn't really sure, and she isn't really listening. Snow and Charming rarely have much of merit to add to any situation, try as they may — and her concerns are elsewhere at the time being. Let the fools argue; Regina will die before she lets some man ruin their plans and get ahold of the dagger. She's seen worse days. What is one tiny man in the face of thousands of rulers, many of whom's blood stains the Queen's hands?

But then Emma makes a small sound; a mumble, or something of the sort, and Regina's head turns immediately. Everyone else's follows, and the arguing ceases immediately.

"Did you hear that?" Henry asks, and Regina nods.

"Love?" Killian tries, placing his hand back on the small of her back. "Are you alright?"

Emma's lips part, and she repeats herself once more, her voice weak and speaking in fragments, but it is at least audible. "R . . . egina."

"Did she just say— " Snow's face is perplexed; she's waiting for confirmation, but she's fairly certain she knows what she's heard.

"— Regina," Henry finishes with certainty. All eyes fall upon Regina, who stands, silently, mouth agape as she stares at the blonde in white. "She wants you, mom."

Regina's flustered by this, and she gives Snow and Charming a nervous glance, both of whom return it with permissive surprise. Killian's jaw is tight, but Regina hardly notices. She steps forward, walking toward the bed.

Emma's stirring again, and as Regina approaches, her eyes open slightly.

"Emma?" Regina asks, tentatively. She's not sure what to do, or what to say, but Emma certainly seems to be, at the very least, aware of her surroundings. She knows Regina is here.

Emma breathes out through her nose, and makes another sound, inaudible this time, like a diseased moan. Something catches in Regina's throat, and before she can identify what it is, she closes her eyes and looks away; she can't bear the sight before her.

"— Per . . . perhaps we should . . . have some time alone." Regina's words are soft, but her voice is not uncertain. She looks at the Charmings, as if searching for their validation. Snow, who meets her eyes first, begins to nod.

"You can't be serious," Killian chides; he's angry now, staring right at Regina, who refuses to look at him. "You expect me to just _leave_ her here."

Regina chooses to ignore him, and, instead, further addresses the Charmings.

"I've dealt with dark magic in the past. … Fighting … dark magic." Looking away for a moment — she's remembering a time she would much rather forget — she straightens once more, and continues.

"I know how it feels to be fighting with the Darkness, and it's not a pretty feeling."

She's more certain of what she's saying now; much more comfortable in her explanation, and it's clear to her that she must be the one to care for Emma. "If Emma is asking for me — if she's aware I'm here — I think it's because a part of her remembers that. She needs _help_. And she can hardly feel better when everyone's staring at her expecting her to do something like a _sock_ puppet."

"You can help her, mom," Henry says, nodding. "I know you can."

"Like bloody hell I'm leaving her side," Killian retorts. "With all due respect, your Majesty, Emma is the woman I love and I'm not about to abandon her like some century old _ship_."

"With all due respect, _pirate_ ," Regina echoes his statement with bite, and her tone is sharp now; she tilts her head, looking at him at last. She's suddenly the Queen again; she's addressing a subordinate. "Charming a few wenches into drinking rum with you doesn't count as dealing with _magic_ , as much as it might seem as such." He clenches his jaw in anger at the condescending insult, but Regina does not flinch one bit, instead, she continues. "I have dealt with magic. _You_ haven't."

"Regina's right," Snow suddenly cuts in, and her body is already angled out of the room. "Give Emma some privacy; let her speak to Regina if that's what she needs to do."

Killian's angry, but he's losing, and he gets up at last, sauntering toward the door bitterly. Turning around as he reaches the archway, he looks upon Emma once more, pointing a hook at Regina. "If anything changes, I want to be notified _immediately_."

Regina gives a curt nod, without looking at him, and he turns around to walk out, followed by Snow and Charming. Henry lingers, and Regina, as though braver in the presence of only her son, edges closer to Emma. Her figure is still collapsed upon the bed, and she is no longer stirring, nor making any noise.

Henry approaches, too. Regina sighs heavily, and she lets her eyes fall upon his face; her sweet, beautiful little boy… so concerned… so worried for his mother. Regina wants to hold him, tell him it's going to be alright — but even she doesn't know that — and she fights the urge to bite the inside of her mouth at the fact that his worry reflects her own.

"She's going to be okay, right?"

Regina takes his hand.

"Yes, Henry. I promise."

Henry seems reassured by this, and he clasps his other hand on top of hers, giving it a squeeze. Regina's own smile grows, and she reaches forward to cup his head, hugging him close to her body. He leans in, accepting the embrace.

"Henry," Snow's leaning into the room, holding the door open slightly. "Come on. Let your mother get some rest."

Henry slowly lets go of his mother, who smiles, still, encouraging him to do as he's told. Still though, her eyes seem to glisten with light, and Henry isn't sure if they're tears or reflections of the flicking candlelight of the room. He gives her a nod, and slides away, and Regina finds herself missing him with every ounce of her being. She knows she must help Emma, most of all, for their son.

The door closes with a heavy, echoing thud, and the room is suddenly darker. Regina and Emma are alone.

Regina swallows again, and slowly lowers herself in front of the other. She wonders if perhaps she can feel the magic within if she gets closer; deduce if there is any sort of curse she can recognize that is growing from the inside. She kneels before Emma… she tries… but instead feels only one thing: overwhelming concern.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

It's shining brilliantly; it's filling her insides with the enormously dangerous, contagious feeling: hope. The Savior claws, again, at the ground, and she feels the wind behind her dying down — soon, all she can focus on is the light before her, and she knows she is not alone.

" _Emma?"_ It asks again, and Regina's face is suddenly in front of her, pleading, questioning, lifting her from the irrevocable Darkness inside her; it's reminding her of who she is, and who she must be. Emma feels herself reaching for the other woman, and she wants to touch her more than anything.

Please. Stay.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Regina," Emma whispers, this time with clear awareness, and Regina's eyes widen.

"—Yes," she responds, uncertainly. "Emma, I'm… here… can you hear me?"

Emma's eyes open, and she squints, as if unable to see properly. She looks entirely worse for wear and Regina feels terribly at the sight of her sunken-in eyes, dark circles beneath. She's losing the fight with Darkness, and she's losing fast. Emma doesn't answer her, but she reaches out, suddenly, and grasps for Regina's hand.

Swallowing, Regina meets the pale fingers with her own, helping her. Emma grips onto them, tightly, laying still at the touch. Her eyes stare forward, past Regina. But she stops moving, and she seems calm, clutching at the Queen's hand like a lost infant to its mother.

Regina doesn't know what she's feeling, but it's a rush, and her heart is pounding in her chest. It's the first time she's touched Emma in . . . well, it's the first time she's truly touched Emma. Emma has touched her, no doubt, but never like this, and never for so long. This is different; it's almost like Emma _needs_ to touch her, and Regina finds herself reaching forward with her other free hand, running it over the blonde's forehead to brush a loose strand of sweaty hair from her face.

 _God, she's burning up._

"I . . . I need to get your fever down," she says, but she's not sure if she's talking to Emma or herself, and suddenly she's filled with an intense sense of responsibility; she knows what she must do. All the years of caring for a young Henry when he was sick has her recalling the long hours of sitting by his side, filling the bath with ice and water and laying him in it, holding his hand and pressing the back of her palm to his forehead in worried anticipation. Those were the moments in which she felt the most helpless; wishing with all of her heart that she could use a spell and magic him better, but of course she couldn't. The thought of doing the same to Emma is strange, but she knows it must be done, without a doubt.

As if sensing what she is about to do, Emma seems to stir.

"Come on," Regina coaxes in response, softly, attempting to get her to her feet. She rests her palm against Emma's side. Emma stirs more, and then, as if registering what is happening, pushes herself up, onto her palms. She can't seem to keep her balance, however, and she stumbles, her arm bending, falling halfway back onto the surface of the bed. She inhales short, loud breaths, lifting her neck to stare forward in defeat, unable to vocalize a request for help.

Regina steadies her, one hand upon the back of her shoulder, and furrows her brows, studying Emma's every facial expression. She's not sure: _is Emma really here? Is she here, with me?_ She seems to be in some sort of half-state . . . she's not talking, but she's not fighting, either, and she's trying . . . she can understand what Regina is saying.

Emma, subsequently, looks at her in return, this time as if she knows who she is. Before Regina knows what she's doing, she's picking Emma up, bridal style, holding her close to her chest. Emma follows suit, cooperatively sliding her arms around her neck, and closes her eyes, collapsing with exhaustion against the Queen. Her head rests in the crook of Regina's neck, and she is still, the flow of her white robes trailing, almost touching the floor. Regina stands for a moment, slightly embarrassed, but there is no one around to witness this, and Emma certainly has no awareness of what's happening. After a long moment, she snaps her fingers, and, in a puff of purple smoke, disappears.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

They find themselves in a dark, enormous bathroom of the castle; Regina can only guess these are Arthur's quarters, but the room looks like it hasn't been touched in ages. The stained glass windows are beautiful — covering every inch of the north edge of the room like a church. Below them rests an enormous bath, big enough to be a swimming pool, and deep enough to sit with your neck comfortably above the water. Regina turns the faucets on with a flick of her wrist, and lets it fill, enchanting it with a slow, thorough spell, using both palms to plant a thin coat of icy magic over the surface. This will make the water cold.

She's set Emma upon a cushioned chair next to the tub, against the wall, and Emma's laying against it motionless, her head resting against the stone, eyes closed. Regina stares at her, frowning — she looks peaceful, almost — and anyone else might have mistaken her for sleeping. Perhaps she is.

Regina approaches her. Her chest is rising and falling gently, which is a relief; at least she's still alive. The white flower crown upon her head and the light spilling in from the window makes her look angelic, and Regina can't help but feel her breath catch her in chest. If only the others knew what lay within; what an ironic sight this would make. She's not sure they would believe it. Regina, certainly, doesn't see it, despite what she knows. Or, perhaps, she does, but it does not cloud the vision. She sees only Emma, in white and veiled in purity; attempting to live a lie she must face, instead, rather than dress up against.

It suddenly occurs to Regina that she has to undress Emma to get her in the tub. She feels her cheeks grow hot at the thought; perhaps she can put her into the water without taking her clothes off? But no; she knows she can't ignore this — Emma is burning up, the sweat on her forehead indicative of just how much. Regina knows she needs the method to be as effective as possible, and the ice water must touch every inch of her skin to lower the fever.

Gently, she reaches forward, removing Emma's flower crown first, laying it beside her.

"I have to get you undressed, Emma," Regina explains, not sure if Emma can hear. "I won't . . . hurt you."

She begins touching Emma's neck, gently, searching for a way to remove the dress now. It seems to be closed from the back, so Regina turns her over, and undoes the buttons. Emma's skin looks soft and her back is taut; prettily detailed and so smooth against the night. Regina swallows, and lets her fall back into position, steadying the back of her neck with her hand.

"I'm taking off your dress now," she murmurs, and clumsily begins to slide it off, driving Emma's arms up and over her head. She undoes Emma's corset, and lets both slide to the floor, guiding them along the way. Emma lays there before her now, naked and motionless, the only sign of life her shallow, steady breathing. Regina tries not to dwell, but she can't help but notice the other woman's body; the small curve of her long torso, her shapely breasts, and her smooth, pale skin as soft as velvet. Her veins seem to stick out, though, which seems unusual — perhaps they are stressed against her skin, pulled taut by the fight against something foreign in her body. Regina swallows, and reaches forward, sliding one hand around Emma's shoulder.

"Come on," she whispers now, and her tone comes out as softly as ever — she's not sure if it's even her voice she's heard. Emma grips her neck, and Regina lifts her, carrying her to the tub, and sliding her in. Gently, she positions her neck onto the rim of the cold marble, and lets go, allowing her hand to linger upon Emma's forehead.

Emma shivers, a breath escaping from behind her thin lips, and she begins to stir once more, uncomfortable by the sudden chill of the water. Regina kneels beside her, frowning.

"I'm sorry, Emma; I know it's unpleasant." She smiles a tight smile, and nods to herself, unsure of who she is reassuring. "But you'll be fine."

Emma stops shivering, then, her lips parting, and she is still. Regina frowns, reaches forward, and caresses her forehead. She still feels hot, but she isn't sweating any longer.

Saying nothing, she stays beside Emma for hours, silently and desperately _hoping_.

o00o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The sun is shining, now, its light, amber rays seeping into the room. Emma jumps; startled awake.

She tries to stand, weak and uneasy on her legs. She stumbles a little, but manages to steady herself after a moment, the sensation of cold marble slightly unpleasant against her bare feet. She realizes that she is wrapped in a single, white towel, and the ends of her hair are damp; she seems to be in a bathroom of some sort.

"Emma."

Emma's head turns, and she meets none other than Regina's gaze, surprisingly — sitting upon the ledge of a large bathtub nearby. Emma's disoriented and confused, and she doesn't understand why she's alone with her.

"What — I. What… happened?"

Regina rises to her feet, and walks over to the cushioned seat Emma has just risen from; she's visibly concerned, and Emma suddenly realizes it had been _her_ that had taken care of her all night — it had been Regina that had been by her side, helping her through her torturous fever — it had been Regina's touch against her burning skin. She is stunned; she stares, mouth agape in slow recollection.

"I was hoping you might tell me," Regina says, and stops in front of her, leaning forward slightly, so to catch Emma should she fall. Regina nods toward the cushioned seat behind her; commands her to sit. Emma does so, but she doesn't take her eyes off of Regina. "You were in a strange trance last night — you couldn't speak."

"What am I doing in here?" Emma asks, looking away from Regina now and toward the floor, brows scrunched; she's trying, very hard, to remember … and for a brief moment, all she can think about is the touch of warm, soft, graceful hands upon her forehead, hands that had helped her into a pool of cold water, resting against her vulnerable, naked flesh. Regina's.

"I — ah. Had to get your fever down." Regina seems uncomfortable, but she's not hiding anything. Emma meets her eyes again; she can tell. Regina never lies to her. Not anymore.

"Wait. So, it was you … ?"

Before Regina can answer, the door flies open, and the Charmings run in, frantic, relieved, and out of breath, all at once.

"Emma!" Snow rejoices, approaching her, and pulls her in for an embrace. "You're okay; oh thank goodness, you're okay!"

Charming stands behind Snow, and, when they pull apart, moves in to hug her as well. Emma rests her head against his shoulder, but looks at Regina from over it; she looks back, appearing surprisingly timid; reminding Emma somewhat of a cornered kitten. Regina's vulnerable and embarrassed in a way that Emma sees only incredibly rarely.

"We were worried sick about you," Charming says. "We were up all night trying to figure out where you went."

"I'm okay, dad." Placing a reassuring hand on his arm, and then gazing over at Snow, Emma nods. "Really."

"We need to get something for you to eat; you must be exhausted. Let's get you dressed, okay?" Snow's already fussing, and she begins to lead Emma toward the door. Regina seems to cooperate; she moves to follow them without a word of protest.

"Love."

They stop, and Emma's head turns, just as Killian enters; he looks as worried, if not more so, as the Charmings — but his face is full of something else, too — anger? He strides forward, and, all at once, his features fall into both anguish and relief. He studies Emma's face, holding her; trying to understand, trying to take in what has just happened. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then he wraps her in a hug, pulling her into his tall, lean frame, one in which she falls into wholeheartedly. But she can't help but feel strange about it . . . like something that had been there before is not anymore. Or, perhaps, she had been able to ignore its absence more vehemently . . . ? Emma can't explain it. She swallows, and looks at Regina, again, over Killian's shoulder. Regina, however, doesn't look back. Instead, she's looking away, toward the window, neck held high, hugging one arm around her body. She looks strangely regal and small, all in one.

Regina feels a pang, then, standing to observe the lover's embrace. Is it a pang of jealousy — of anger? She hardly knows why she's felt it. Killian has done _nothing_ to deserve this; nothing to embrace the Savior in such a way, and she feels herself wanting to interrupt, somehow, in a way she has never before. But, of course, she does not — settling for a large, slow swallow of whatever it is that has lodged its way into her throat instead. She's never disliked the pirate more than in this moment. Her mind soon flashes to Emma's naked form before her; so light and beautiful alone with her. She shakes off the feeling.

Emma breaks apart from Killian, and she searches for Regina. As their eyes meet, she gives her a nod; a very genuine one, and Regina blinks, waiting for the other to speak.

"Thank you," Emma says.

Everyone's eyes follow her, and Regina suddenly feels embarrassed; she is not on a stage — she does not want to be gazed upon by these people. But the thank you makes her feel something akin to warmth, and she forces a smile.

"Welcome back," she settles on.

The moment feels eerily familiar, but this time, the statement is not more than enough — it's not enough at all.


End file.
